


Origins, In The Valley Below

by Blinkdog



Series: Twinshadow's Tale [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Origin Story, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 03:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blinkdog/pseuds/Blinkdog
Summary: The prelude to the tale of the Watcher Twinshadow, this is the prologue of a Pale Elf Ranger whose life has begun to unravel the mysteries around her once shadowy origins an orphan within the Living Lands. For a place filled with life, it certainly spills blood in equal part.





	Origins, In The Valley Below

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fun little fic for me to myself to help develop my character Twinshadow that I played and finished Pillars of Eternity with; her references to the Goddess is my own take and perspective on the game's religions, and a legend that she discovered in runes within a cavern in the Livings Lands (the Pale Elves are said to have descended from the Living Lands many eras ago).  
> **Still always in edit mode -- I always fiddle with the format or presentation of information; sorry guys!**

The Origin of Nhyvania Twinshadow - Ranging Hunter from The Living Lands

(under constant editing because I’m shit at proofreading)

It would be a long night, she knew. 

“So what brings you all the way up here?” she asked, her skinning knife sliding along the end of the stick, fashioning it into a finely-pointed skewer. 

The two men looked at each other, then at her. “Well,” started the first one, a tall, lean human with oily brown hair and pallid, taut skin, “heard so much about the mighty bounty of the Lands, thought we’d test Lady Luck herself.” His pale, blue eyes gleamed as he stared at her. “You hear things down south that get you thinkin’.” The second man, a muscular, tawny-skinned wood elf, merely watched her blade move across the wood, back and forth. 

“I see,” she said, putting the first skewer down and picking up another stick. She set her blade on the tip, but merely held it there. Her two-toned eyes, one silver, one soft black, slid between the two, studying their faces. “I don’t get many people wanting to settle up here. Mostly just people passing through to see the sights, or, in the rare case, heading to a village where the rest of their kin did settle. Not many people hire on Rangers these days anyways.” She tilted the stick at a downward angle and began peeling away the green bark. The campfire between them sparked and crackled in the wake of silence. 

The river that ran near them was a dull roar, but it did not entirely drown out the sounds of beasts calling from deeper in the forests. “So, Ranger,” the first man said, a glint in his eye accompanying the faint mocking tone, “what sights are there to see?” His eyes did not focus on the silver of her cloak, nor the grey of her leathers, emblazoned with a white hand above her heart, but roved around the curve of her body, then focused directly on her mouth, at last fixating on her eyes and the tattoos that branded her face. She cut a deep swath out of the branch, meeting his stare as she did so. “Depends on what sort of trouble you’re looking for. I know plenty of caverns in the area filled with ornery beast. I know of entire villages, swallowed by jungle or desert, haunted by spirits at various stages of unrest. I know of endless plains that hide shadowstalkers that would walk in your footsteps and you wouldn’t know it until their claws have torn your spine open. Usually, a Ranger advises her employers not to tread in those areas, but…” her knife carved deep and swift, a curled piece of bark flinging into the flame, “if you’re hell-bent on danger, I won’t stop you.” 

The elvish man had quietly begun to pace and walked a semi-circle around her as she spoke with the human. She glanced to her side. Her bow was leaning against a log, as was her estoc. The human had one hand propped against his knee, in plain sight, and when he talked, he made motion to flourish it, but his other hand was nowhere to be seen; her ears heard the slight clicking of a pistol being cocked from his cloak. She glanced to the side and saw the elvish man’s hand had come to rest on the pommel of his scimitar. 

“Oh see, where I come from,” he smiled broadly, “we love dang—” Her knife connected with his throat, sinking into his vocal chords, burying itself to the hilt. He gurgled, stumbling to his feet and trying to suck air in; it made a terrible suctioning sound, akin to a foot prying out of wet mud. He fell face forward into the fire, sending ash, ember and flame in a plume around his writhing body. The Elf was already coming down at her with his scimitar, a tremendous whistling swing. She rolled, singing herself on the charcoal and tinder, but uprighted and stepped on, atop--across the thrashing human. She rolled him over and planted a leather boot against his blackened throat and pulled out her knife. It came loose with a wet peel. 

The elf continued to sidestep, his eyes trained on her, rapt to each micromovement. She backed away from the fire, towards the river, the small, bloodied hunting knife the only thing between her and her unknown assailant. _Settlers my frostkissed ass,_ she thought with a pang, sharp in her temple. 

With the grace of a well trained mercenary, the elf came at her, slashing and arcing his blade. She ducked and dodged, rolled and leaning out of his thrusts. She kicked out at his legs, felling him to one knee, but he finally made purchase and grazed her on the thigh as she tried to sweep her leg back. It cut into her leathers and sunk. She felt the searing pain, followed by the agonizing sting of open air when he tore free of her. Warmth spread and began to trickle down her calf. Clambering to her feet, her trained breath becoming slightly ragged, she stopped backing up, and merely stood still, watching him slowly stand and stretch his shoulder, brandish his blade with satisfaction, flecks of red spinning off in numerous directions. 

“What do they call you out here, Ranger?” His thick Vailian accent was consumed with mirth. “The Lone Wolf, is it? So sad, no? Left all alone… Lone Wolves don’t live long without their packs to care for them. Oh, graces, verus? The way they speak of you in villages! ‘Don’t hire the Whiteling, she cannibalized her entire Order.’ ‘Oh, the Wolf preys upon the travelers and feeds on their corpse and soul!’ A hungry wolf, are you? Luring people out here to their deaths?” 

She grit her teeth. “Which village sent you? It’s lies.” Her hardened gaze traveled over his gear—rough and weathered, but expensive. “I did not cannibalize my Order. Go before your life is forfeit to the earth.” 

“Ah, but no village sent me, you understand. At least none from here. Not to take the Lone Wolf, but… who was this Wolf before, I wonder, hm?” he absently twirled the scimitar in his hand, his eyes flickering across the tattoos on her forehead and that lined her eyes like warpaint, “This wolf has marks brant across her face from a time before. Maybe this wolf was once a dog, yes? Maybe once, someone owned this dog. Maybe I was sent to catch this dog.” 

Her eyes quickly took note of the ground. She could make for the river, but this time of year it had a strong undercurrent that pulled most people, unsuspecting, to their deaths. Her footsteps, light though they were, did shift dust from the hard-packed bank, however. A slow smile spread across her face. 

“What does the dog think to be so funny?” the Elf asked, a smile matching hers mirroring back. 

“That this dog can be quite the bitch.” With that, she kicked hard, and a plume of dust and grit sprayed into his open eyes and mouth. His hand immediately clawed towards his sockets, and he gave a loud half-shriek of confusion. For a halfbreath, she looked around, her eyes darting rapidly—run or fight. 

Run or fight. 

With a sharp exhale, she dove towards his stomach, her shoulders colliding hard with his ribcage, her knife driving in for the vital organs. As he went down, she rolled over the top of him and landed on her feet, tensed above his head, and with grit teeth drove a bare hand straight into his throat. Her sharpened nails gouged and tore, while the other hand grappled with his sword arm. He squirmed and rolled, attempting to bite at the arm that had pinned him by the throat, but she drove her free arm inward with all of her strength, like a bear trying to break apart a deer’s chest, heaving downward with all of her might hinged on her back and shoulder. His wet screams turned into heartbeat-like splatters as she crushed, up and down, her nail and knuckle meeting gristle and spine. 

When at last she realized his cries were long stilled, she fell back. Her arm was coated in thick, viscous black blood and tatters of cloth and skin. Rocking back on her heels and at last splaying her legs out, she stared at it absently, looking around her as if the world had suddenly returned to full colour. Two men, one half-burned over flame, still smoking, and the other’s throat ripped out entirely. 

It looked bestial. 

She had earned the title and reputation of the Lone Wolf, she supposed. It was no wonder they imagined her to be a cannibal. She had done similar to other highwaymen or bandits when threatened. But to protect, to defend. 

But isn’t that what Lone Wolves do? she mused, survive at all costs? 

She wiped a hand across her brow, slick with oil and dirt. The Living Lands had been her mother since she was a child. She was found, naked and feral, by the Order of the White Hand, more informally known as the White Rangers. They had taken her in, trained her, loved her, and yet… she as a witness, watched as they had all perished around her. Years passed and then, next to the deep gouges of scars, wrinkles drew lines as well, sinking into familiar curves around her friends’ eye and mouth. Where once hair was bright and bold, their braids became woven grey and white. She had outlived those that saved her, and took with her the pain of them passing in their sleep, not waking when she shook them, or watching a careless swing lay them down dead-eye in the earth to beast. Without them… 

Her sigh rumbled in her chest. They had all joined the order as lass and lad. It was no wonder they had fallen and slumbered around the same age, and not many come seeking their fortune as a Ranger this far into the interior. After they passed, well… it was not uncommon knowledge, her origin; the bestial child from the wilds. She had been quite the talk in the small towns that bloomed in the more verdant valleys and meadows. As generations of families grew up, her legend became more colourful. A Folketale to keep young kith in bed at night. 

Looking at her hands… she was just thankful none of her order were alive to see her now, the blood dripped into a drying patch of ruddy brown beneath her hand. Dust settled over it, her breaths slowing, the heat of battle drying from her brow… and the torrent of water rushing nearly erased the reverberating sound of screams in her ears. 

The river. 

She dragged both of their bodies to the river edge. Kneeling down, she examined their faces. The elf was Vailian, but the man, she would guess was likely Aedyran, based on manner and dress. After ripping the knife free and wiping it clean on the elf’s clothes, she fished through their pockets. In the folk’s pocket, she found a crumpled, weathered note. 

“Pale Elf. Female. Youthful, technical age 60-65 years old. White-blonde hair. Right eye Silver, Left eye Black. Small stature, lithe figure. Sworl tattoo on forehead & outlined around eyes in the colour of the sea for correct identification. Officially known in the south as the Seventh Seastar, Aveandar. Status of mother, brother & as of last seen, unborn sibling, unknown. Nicknames: Seastone, Twinshadow, Northern Frost, Snowfox, Ghost, Lone Wolf. Given Name by Order: Nhyvania Twinshadow. Rarely goes by. Associations: Order of the White Hand – White Rangers: status of order – deceased. Faithful of the Twilight Lady : status of order – deceased. Profession: Hunter / Ranging Guide. Animal Companion: last known, Black Leopard (deceased). Known to wield rapiers, estocs & accurate long range with warbow, deadly up close with throwing knives. Honest by nature but feared by locals to be a Cannibal. Raised feral in the wilds by herself until around age of thirteen winters. Last known contact with other Rangers 10-8 years ago. Prefers interior, forests and mountain, visits seaside every year in midsummer. Passes through the towns of Stillwater, Black Antler and Crowned Thicket for supplies regularly—ask locals for information. Known to scribe books, scrolls, craft poultice & potion, and tan hides. Look for on the western interior Lodges. Ask for assistance invoking her order, she won’t turn down. Best taken while asleep, drug her food or ale. Prefers dark ales. Don’t spook her. Bring back her head, eyes intact. – M.H.” 

Someone had been doing their research. An unsettling chill ran down her spine, the white hairs raising on her arm. Most of this information was news to her. 

She committed the words to memory, her lips moving in silent reading, eyes roving over the words once, twice, thrice and then… she crumpled the note and threw it into the river first. It bobbed up and down, still for a moment, before catching on the invisible tug of the undertide. At once, the black water sucked it under, the paper disappearing into the depths. 

Dragging the men feet-first, she shoved them both into the river. Dusting her hands off on her kneecaps, she sighed, watching their bodies bash against rocks as they floated downstream. Unlike the paper, their bodies refused to sink—their limbs caught the pull of the ripcurrent, but their faces and torsos remained upturned, dead eyes gazing upwards at the sky as if begging the night to grant them a final chance, reconciliation with their fates. 

This was bad; the locals, if they found the bodies of these men, and if the men had been asking after her, would know that they last sought her, and would find their bodies in poor state. Further fodder for the Cannibal rumours. 

“Gods above, this land is wearing out its welcome.” She paused, tapping a finger against her chin. A mother, brother, and unborn sibling. As far as she was aware, she was an only child. She was sure, of course, she had been born between the legs of a Pale Elf somewhere down the line, obviously, but… ‘Officially known in the South’? She had a reputation somewhere? How could that be, if she had grown up here in the wilds, feral, from such a young age? Something wasn’t sitting right. 

M.H., it was signed. Curious. Well, they had found her, certainly. She looked around the forest and rocky outcroppings, suspicion etched into her brow; was she watched even now? Who, exactly, had been spying on her long enough to track her habits? Not just habits, but yearly habits. The midsummer sea-visits were a trek she took religiously every year, to honour the Twilight Lady. Had someone been stalking her? Unnerving, she thought, a deep chill from within spreading through her lungs and chest. 

And why send foreign mercenaries if someone that good at gathering intel had been here all the while, in the area? Unless they had been here for a short time and merely gathered the information from villagers. Or combat was not their strength--but again, poison had been mentioned. It was odd. She would have to travel into the towns and start questioning people. Wouldn’t be pretty, she imagined. People shut their doors upon her entrance into towns, grabbed their children and told them to hide. 

How had it come to this? She strode over to the remains of the campfire. It smelled of burnt flesh, an odour sure to draw out hungry beasts or curious creature. She kicked dirt and dust over the coal, her boot scuffing against the compact, dry earth. Lastly, she overturned the stone ring atop it, stacking them carefully, like a grave. At least someone made them one. Kinder than most murderers, she supposed. 

She placed her knife back in her small scabbard at her side. Returning to her pack and belongings, she strapped her enchanted Estoc, Wolfe’s Maw, to her belt and slung her bow, a gift called Thrice-Arrow, over her back, securing her half-full quiver at her side. Lastly, she threw her light pack over one shoulder and looked over the small abandoned camp. There was sign of a struggle, but with the rains coming, it should cover her tracks leading away. 

She sighed. “No good Kith these days,” she murmured as she wrapped a small strip of linen over the cut on her leg, tying a tight knot and gritting her teeth, “and nothing worth living for in these lands.” Her eyes traveled around the distant cliffs, the rolling hills that bound upward into the jutting mountain peaks, bearing both jungle and temperate forest, meadow and plains, desert and crag, the curl of hotspring and waterfall mists over the distant horizon, and still… none of it held beauty in her eyes anymore. 

She looked towards the distant south, where she could not see—but knew—that the sea waited, beckoning. “Twilight lady, know I carry you with me always,” she whispered, her eyes darting up to the rising moon, the reflection mirroring in her dark iris only. “In silence and sorrow.” 

Her steps, light and precise, began to follow a game trail, and soon she was but a shadow in the descending darkness.


End file.
